


give in, eyes closed

by Strawberry_Champagne



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Asexual Luke Skywalker, Blindfolds, Character Study, Demisexual Din Djarin, Established Relationship, Gray-Asexuality, Kissing, M/M, Touch-Starved Din Djarin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-11 10:09:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28349676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Strawberry_Champagne/pseuds/Strawberry_Champagne
Summary: When Din decided that this was something that he could have, even the most innocent touch was like torrential rain on a sun-scorched planet. He feels like he might drown in it when they’re pressed together like this, counts the points of contact, mouth. chest. knees. hands. wrists. This isn’t something he wants from just anyone. Luke isn’t just anyone, not by a parsec.Luke Skywalker and Din Djarin share a quiet moment while chasing rumors of Force-sensitives across the galaxy.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Luke Skywalker
Comments: 36
Kudos: 320





	give in, eyes closed

Things changed for Din Djarin like a lava flow breaking free, what looks slow to the outside observer overtaking him like a flood of fire. First, it was a small hand around his gloved fingers, reaching out to be held tucked up against his chest, pressed at last against the bare skin of his cheek. Something that would have brought him shame and horror for much of his life became shockingly precious in a way he would never have anticipated.

Then there was a man in black, sweeping in with a sword of blazing green light. His arrival meant loss and hope, an ending and a new beginning. He was the first to see Din’s face when it wasn’t life-or-death since he was a child—it hadn’t been meant for the Jedi back then, but it feels fitting, now.

That doesn’t mean that it’s suddenly easy; the Mandalorian has lived this way for too long for that. Unused to not trusting his own instincts in all things, Din finds it difficult to tease apart the things he does because he’s been told it is the truth his whole life and the things that actually resonate bone-deep, ringing like a hammer on the forge. Sometimes those are the same thing, but he’s starting to learn that other times, they are not.

 _Following tradition without nuance or flexibility can teach the hardest lessons_ , Luke had told him once, voice drenched in borrowed pain.

The man is seated across a low table from him now, cross-legged and quiet, in shadow except for a stripe of moonlight from a window in the room they’ve rented. A slight breeze ruffles his hair—his eyes are closed, he’s been meditating, reaching out in the Force he says, communing with the different forms that life takes on this planet. Something like that. He has his own Way, one that Din doesn’t pretend to fully understand.

Luke’s eyes open, sparking with electric vitality, epiphany.

“I found them,” he says. “Or at least, evidence of where they’ve been. Ripples. I think we can follow them.”

He includes Din in this ability, too generous. The Mandalorian will go where he leads, a blaster at his side, all the tools in his arsenal at his disposal—at least while they’re on this mission, until their paths diverge once more. It’s not so different from chasing bounties, though they hope that these will at least be going willingly and not in carbon. Luke is chasing rumors of Force-sensitives across the galaxy on reluctant stints away from his young charges, because it’s not as if detecting these disturbances can be taught, and it’s not as if there’s anyone else. Sometimes venturing out is worth the risk, even if his kind are few in number. Din Djarin knows something about that.

He hums in assent, though he doesn’t really need to. Though the Mandalorian’s reputation is something of a mysterious one, it can be a relief to strip that away without exposure or self-betrayal, to not need to verbalize his general thoughts and emotions and still be perceived completely.

“We can leave at first light,” he says. Some things are good to say out loud. Like _would it break your Creed if I kissed you right now._ Like _maybe there are some rules worth breaking._

That kiss had been several standard months ago, though with time apart between—now they navigate each other’s space without trepidation, going through the mundane motions to prepare for sleep. Along with these, there’s some unusual steps, like the paranoid triple-check of weapon readiness borne by hunted men, the systematic removal of precious armor components until the last, kept within arm’s reach even in sleep.

Luke is a little softer, seems younger, without the solemn trappings of his dark Jedi robes. A sleeveless tunic and loose pants highlight a well-hidden muscular frame. In the evening, when he has time, he likes to balance one-handed and levitate various heavy objects while he exercises. Din hadn’t really known that was something a person could do, and privately thinks that it’s kind of unfair. Especially since Luke seems so damn _serene_ while he’s doing it, and it kills any chance of Din’s own concentration completely.

Of course, Luke is all-too-aware of this effect. He catches Din’s eye—even through the helmet, there’s no question that this is what he’s doing—and smiles, half almost-bashful, half sly and knowing. Seated on the bed, he turns away without having to be asked. This next part, the Mandalorian does alone.

Din grasps his helmet with both hands from the bottom, lifts it straight up and tucks it under one arm before crossing to the small ‘fresher attached to their room. A frameless oval mirror hangs on the wall that he glances up at briefly after splashing water over his face, and a fan blasts him dry, ruffling his dark hair. He should probably shave again before prickly stubble gives way into something harder to remove or maintain, but that can wait.

Luke is stretching on the bed, hand curled around the bottom of one bare foot, almost touching forehead to knee. He doesn’t look up when Din approaches and sets his helmet with the rest of his armor, breathes deeply as he repeats the stretch on the other leg, in and out, muscles expanding like wings. It still feels subversive to watch him like this, bare-faced in his presence. Din has stopped feeling like he’ll be caught out for it, mostly. He’s still Mandalorian, always will be. He just gets to decide what that means, which set of rules to follow. Not looking at Din directly isn’t a firm rule, exactly. It’s a negotiation. They’re moving in sublight, coordinates made up as they go along.

Din moves in behind Luke as he rises from the stretch, back straight, streaked with moonlight. He wants to press his lips against the soft skin where the thin tunic scoops below the nape of his neck, settles for dragging his thumb in a short line through the fine hair there. Luke inhales sharply through his nose, even though Din knows he couldn’t sneak up on him if he wanted to. He’s tried.

“Do you have—” he murmurs, and doesn’t have to finish his thought. A length of dark fabric appears from somewhere, pressed into Din’s hands. It’s just wide enough to cover Luke’s eyes, long enough to be tied in a loose knot without much excess at the back of his head.

“Good? Not too tight.”

Luke shakes his head and hums softly to tell him it’s not. He’d let him know if it was. This had been Luke’s idea, after that first time, when it had seemed like it might never happen again without danger breathing down their necks, extenuating circumstances. It was presented to Din as an option when the tension between his past and present stretched between them like a taut wire, liable to snap them in half.

Din skims his palms down Luke’s sides, tucks himself in closer behind him. When Luke turns in his arms, his upturned face is still a cold-water shock, if blunted by the lack of eye contact. Din lets his own eyes fall closed—he feels the weight of perception still, the world yawning around him, too much to drink in. This way, he can narrow his focus, heightening the intensity in a way he can handle.

Luke finds him unerringly in the dark, a gentle but confident press of two fingertips on Din’s stubbled jaw, sliding across to his pulse point like his armor’s whistling birds. Din wonders if what he sees in the Force is something like infrared, a rainbow after-image behind his eyelids. Luke had tried to explain it to him once, but it didn’t quite take. He cups his face in both hands now, so close Din can feel his breath—he kisses his lips once, pliant and warm, unhurried. This hasn’t happened enough times for it to not still send a shiver through Din’s core, a small voice that’s not his own whispering _not allowed_ , terrifying and thrilling in turns.

It’s not that Din has never been interested in any type of physical intimacy, but it has always been full of barriers both practical and philosophical, built up over the years and reinforced by his Tribe and their Way. Even so, there have been fumblings of various kinds, of course. The helmet had stayed on, and Din hadn’t quite known if something was missing—physical release isn’t something he puts a lot of stock in, he can take it or leave it most days. And if no one seemed to stick around for long, well. He’s never had much use for an entourage.

So when Din decided that this was something that he could have, even the most innocent touch was like torrential rain on a sun-scorched planet. He feels like he might drown in it when they’re pressed together like this, counts the points of contact, _mouth. chest. knees. hands. wrists._ This isn’t something he wants from just anyone. Luke isn’t just anyone, not by a parsec. He’s a good man who has danced with darkness, an interplay of light and shadow that Din recognizes. Quick with a smile or word of comfort, but tough as Beskar steel when he needs to be.

He’s relaxed now under Din’s hands that stroke across his back, rucking up his tunic. Luke tilts into him, encouraging him to peel the fabric up and over his head. He makes a pretty picture, Din supposes, bared to the waist, chin tilted up, the sandy fringe of his hair falling over the blindfold. Din removes his own shirt, too— the planet they’re on is balmy and humid, and the breeze from the open window across the room cools their overheated skin. They’re still a little tacky with sweat; Din can feel it where it has collected and dried under Luke’s tunic, between his shoulder blades.

They trade a few sleepy kisses without any expectation of a firm destination until Din tucks his head against Luke’s shoulder, vibrating with it, almost overcome. This is usually as far as things go, with them. Luke had put his hands on Din once, more a release of adrenaline after a mission had gone particularly sideways than any fulfillment of erotic desire, affirmation that they were still alive and breathing. It suits them fine—their needs are few and simple, easily negotiated. They stretch out on the bed in their own spaces, not touching; it’s too hot, and they have no compulsion to curl around each other in sleep, possessive.

There are layers of vulnerability in their arrangement that Din tries not to examine too closely. He doesn’t consider himself a soft man, or even a particularly nice one. He’s a bounty hunter, a mercenary, at times thinks he only happened to fall into the laps of the “good guys.” If he hadn’t taken that Remnant job, hadn’t found Grogu, he wonders where he would be today. (When he told Luke this, he just laughed brightly and said that Din needed to meet his brother-in-law.)

It’s not an alternate reality that Din Djarin cares to contemplate for long. Maybe it’s fate or the Force, something outside his control that he doesn’t and will never understand. Maybe he’s just lucky. It’s enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the song "Simmer" by Hayley Williams (Petals for Armor). I hope you enjoyed - if you did, your kudos and comments are always cherished and appreciated. Thanks for reading!


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